


the cruelty of miracles

by betamax524



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Surreal, vague time period that's some pastiche of things from 30s to 90s i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4817939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betamax524/pseuds/betamax524
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr doesn't believe in miracles, so when it finally rains in the drought-ridden county of Westchester, he chalks it up to unpredictable weather patterns. Then the news spreads about a young man who can apparently cure any disease, and Erik takes it upon himself to uncover the truth.</p><p>However, what seems like a simple hoax quickly unravels into a web of dark secrets, whispering shadows and the evanescent smell of lilies. Will Erik be able to figure out the mystery unscathed, or will he have to face his own ghosts?</p><p>(Very, very loosely based on the 1982 Filipino movie "Himala.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. downpour on a sunny day

**Author's Note:**

> some of the incidents mentioned offhand are actual things that have happened, but as far as i know, nobody's still really sure what the real cause is. also, some of this is based off my own experiences and dreams, but it's mostly the small details.

Erik's adjusting his typewriter when Emma walks in and unceremoniously drops a newspaper in front of him. "Westchester just started getting rain after fifty-something years of drought, and now they apparently have a faith healer among them," Emma says, her clipped tone slightly betraying her own frustration and wonder.

"It's the rush," Erik replies with a shrug, leafing through the pages. "When something unpredictable happens, you're more likely to believe anything else thrown at you with even the flimsiest evidence"

"He's apparently cured people of blindness and paralysis, Erik. This is either one of the greatest hoaxes in modern history, or it's an actual _miracle_ ," she adds, leaning down to point to quotations from the apparently healed. Erik shakes his head and bats her hand away, then rests his chin on his steepled fingers.

"Miracles are nothing more than coincidences preceded by frantic belief. We create miracles, Emma, or at least, we set ourselves up to believe in them," he says, looking her in the eyes. It's what he's always believed. After all, if your mind can make you see things that aren't there, anything is possible. Erik knows this from experience.

Emma crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. " _Always_ the skeptic," she says, "I take it you're going to investigate this, then? You've always had some weird fascination with religious hoaxes."

"Let's just say I have a long history with shit like this," Erik replies, mapping out his path on a page of his notebook. As he's packing up his camera, he notices that it's starting to drizzle outside.

* * *

Erik's sure it's only started raining, but the roads seem to be blanketed with an inch or so of water. As he's carefully driving through towards Westchester, Erik takes the chance to think about all the other "miracles" he's pulled apart over the years. There's the statue of the Virgin Mary that apparently cried blood, that turned out to be the paints on the face slowly melting from the humidity. Then that one Mass where the communion bread and wine turned to actual flesh and blood, which was actually the priest's hallucination combined with mass hysteria. And of course, the little girl who could apparently speak tongues who was simply having seizures and left undiagnosed for the longest time out of ignorance and fear.

He notes that it always seems to be Christian, specifically Catholic iconography that seems to be affected. Then again, it must be easier to believe when you can look them in the eyes, he thinks. He doesn't like them though, their seemingly benevolent gazes feeling hollow and artificial to him.

Musings aside, he can see a mansion looming over the horizon that matches the one in the newspaper pictures. He plans to stay for at least three days,and mentally calculates how much film he can use per day, and starts piecing together a spiel so that the faith healer's family will think he has good intentions. He's never been cynical enough to outright tell people that what they're believing is false. After all, you understand so much _more_ when you try to see it through their eyes.

The rain seems to be stronger here, loud enough to hear inside the car, but aside from that, it's bright as day. He purses his lips, and checks through his glove box for an umbrella. Thankfully, he finds one, and he tosses it onto the passenger's seat.

He takes a right turn and drives past a queue of people to park in front of the door. There's a throng of people crowding the porch, all waiting patiently, some huddled under thick cloth to keep dry. Somehow, someone spots him, and soon the chatter dies down to a hush as everyone turns to look at him, and the crowd seemingly parts just for him.

A woman is led back into the crowd, wobbling on her legs like a child, and then Erik finds himself looking into too-blue eyes that seem look past him, focused on something in the distance. The... young man? boy? purses his red lips and tilts his head, hands playing with the hem of his too-white shirt. "You're not from here," he whispers, but it somehow echoes into the air around them.

"Yes, that's true," Erik replies, straightening his back, "I've caught news of your work, and I'd like to observe how you go about it, if you'd allow it." Before the blue-eyed boy can answer, a woman steps in front of him, hair perfectly curled and dressed in a similarly bright, white dress. She wrings her gloved hands together and gives Erik a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, tilting her head just like the boy did earlier.

"Perhaps we could talk about this in private," she says, reaching for a white umbrella being handed to her, "So we don't disturb Charles." Erik simply nods, and follows her as she walks towards what appears to be a garden. "Are you... _associated_ with anyone, sir?" she asks, while her hand flies up to her hair, shakily smoothing her curls. She briefly checks a rose bush before turning to face him with a tight smile.

"Erik Lehnsherr, madam," Erik replies, giving a curt bow. "And to put it simply, I'm an individual journalist interested in these... miracles, is all."

"I'm Sharon Xavier, Charles' mother," the woman says, holding out her hand, which Erik gives a firm, polite shake. "It's just that... some people have come here with... less than good intentions." She sighs, and another hand flutters to her bangs, smoothing them back.

"I'd just like to observe daily routines and such. And if it's all right, I'd like to take some photographs, to help with my notes. I'll do my best to stay out of the way," he replies, giving her a gentle smile. Her eyes flutter quickly between emotions before she calms down and gives him a small smile.

"That sounds all right to me... Here, let me show you a room you can stay in." She says, smoothing out the skirt of her dress and walking back towards the porch. As Erik turns to follow her, he catches the unmistakable scent of lilies.

"Do you grow lilies in your garden, Mrs. Xavier?" he asks, looking around for the source of the scent. It's not that strong, but it's not something you could miss. It's unmistakably _there_ , and Erik wonders why she doesn't seem to mind.

"Lilies? Oh, heavens _no_ , the weather here is too unpredictable and the soil isn't good for them..." she replies, voice trailing off as she smooths down her hair yet again.

Erik stops for a moment, and the scent of lilies is gone. He shakes his head and continues to follow Mrs. Xavier, who walks with small, measured steps, and holds her umbrella with both hands.

* * *

With a deep breath, Erik takes off his coat and tosses it over a chair. He sits down on the bed and unbuttons his shirt, leaving it open and rolling up the sleeves. The room he's been given, (chosen actually), is just small enough to be cozy but not claustrophobic. Walking over to the window, he draws the curtains to watch the rain. The people have been sent home for the day, and Erik starts his observations tomorrow. Just as he's gathering his thoughts for the day, he gets the feeling of eyes on his back, so he turns around.

The boy--Charles, is standing in the doorway, staring at him with wide eyes. "What are you doing here?" he asks, playing with the ends of his shirt.

"Watching the rain," Erik replies curtly.

"Not that," Charles says, furrowing his brow. "What are you doing _here_? Do you need to be healed?"

"I'm sure your mother told here I'm just here to observe you," he replies, slightly agitated. "And I need to keep a neutral opinion as much as possible."

Charles tilts his head, and his eyes seem to focus on the rain outside. "Doesn't it hurt?" he whispers, loosely placing a hand on his chest. "Doesn't it hurt... _here?_ " Erik opens his mouth, but before he can reply, a brown-haired girl rushes to his side, gently scolding him and taking his hands into hers.

"Don't disturb him, he's a guest--" she says, and turns to Erik. "I'm _so_ sorry, he gets tired after healing, and sometimes he wanders off on his own, and, well, he hasn't bothered you or anything."

"Not at all." Erik replies flatly, but Charles turns to look straight at him. He tilts his head and furrows his brows, but the brown-haired girl is gently leading him down the hall and away from Erik's room.

He's going to have to lock the door while he's here, then.

 


	2. flowers growing on a barren land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for mentions/hints of self-harm, also offhanded mentions/discussions of drug use.

Erik wakes up just as the sun starts to rise, spilling bright colors over the sky and illuminating the mansion with vivid hues. He manages to make his way to the kitchen, and after some poking around, he manages to make himself a cup of coffee just the way he likes it. Strong, black and bitter, it helps clear his mind and get him ready every morning. As he's watching the sun rise from the large windows in the kitchen, he hears footsteps behind him that come to a stop.

"You're up early," a voice says, and Erik turns to see a young woman standing by the other end of the table. She runs a hand through loose golden waves of hair, and chews on her lower lip. "Nobody here really gets up before eight."

"I like to start my day early," he replies, hands loosely curled around his own mug. "I don't believe we've been introduced, though. You are..?"

The woman fidgets before pulling up a chair to sit in. "I'm Raven. Charles'... sister, yeah." She drums her fingers lightly on the table, never looking Erik in the eyes. He notes that she seems to have dark circles under her eyes and bandages peeking out from her long sleeves, a sharp contrast to Charles' pale, freckled skin that's just on the side of porcelain. She sighs, and brushes her hair back from her forehead while worrying her lower lip again.

"Did you sleep well?" Erik asks carefully, propping his arm on the table and resting his chin on his hand. Raven gives a lopsided smile and shrugs, standing up to look through the fridge.

"Better than usual, I guess," she replies lightly, moving to sit on the counter top and drink straight from a bottle of orange juice. Erik simply hums in response, and turns his attention back to his coffee.

* * *

While waiting for everyone else to wake up, Erik decides to walk the halls of the mansion and map it out for reference. There's all this space, but only four people apparently live here, so the rest of the mansion has a haunting air of emptiness. From one of the windows, he spots what seems like a small hill by the east of the mansion. Through another window, he sees people beginning to line up solemnly outside the front door. Erik shakes his head to clear his thoughts. There's something _off_ about this place, and he wants to find out the truth.

Making his way downstairs, Erik finds everyone else gathered outside his room, dressed in immaculate white clothes. "Oh, there are you are," Sharon says, "We were looking for you since... well, you might want to observe Charles' morning prayers." Erik nods and gives a quick thanks, then walks into his room to prepare his camera and throw on a coat.

* * *

Soon enough, Erik finds himself trailing behind Charles, who carefully makes his way to the top of the hill. The soil is somehow dry under Erik's boots, and every step kicks up a small cloud of dust. He lingers behind once, to take a picture of Charles' back turned to him, white clothes a stark contrast against the dirt. After that, he continues following Charles, taking in all the details he can. Then he sees green.

"We're here," Charles says matter-of-factly, and places a small blanket on the grass for him to kneel on. He puts his hands together, bows his head, and his lips start moving in whispered prayers, but Erik is too distracted by the flowers twined around a wooden cross staked into the ground. Everywhere else, the ground is as barren as the path they took, but there's almost some sort of garden surrounding Charles. There are forget-me-nots around his feet, and daffodils gathered by the base of the wooden cross. Furrowing his brows, Erik takes a step forward and goes down on one knee to take a photo.

He's fiddling with the aperture when he feels a chill run through his spine, and when he looks up, Charles' head is now thrown back, lips moving soundlessly against the sky. The chill seems to run deep into his bones, making his fingers feel cold. He takes a second to regain his bearings, bringing the viewfinder up to his eye, when he's hit with a strong wave of the scent of lilies.

There are no lilies growing in the strange garden surrounding Charles, and the cold is pushing itself deeper into Erik's body, so much so that it feels like his blood is running cold through his body now. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he takes a picture of Charles, somehow leaning back even farther, with his clasped hands flush against his chest.

He can feel his heartbeat pounding, and chest aches from the cold, and also from holding his breath. Somehow, _finally_ , the chill slowly creeps out of his bones just as Charles opens his eyes and hangs his head, rolling his shoulders backwards before standing up.

"We have to go," he says softly, "They're waiting for me." Erik stands up and dusts the dirt from his pants as Charles picks up his blanket and makes his way back down. When Erik turns around to follow, he feels something like lace brush against his cheek and his skin prickles, like he's being watched.

Of course, when he turns around, there's nothing there aside from the strange garden. He's not sure why he expected someone to be there, even for just a moment.

* * *

After observing around ten people coming to be healed, Erik excuses himself and walks to a phone in a secluded part of the mansion. Emma picks up after three rings, and he gives her no time for polite small talk.

"This is fucked up. _Really_ fucked up. It's like the beginnings of a cult over here," he says, clenching one fist and placing his arm against the wall for leverage. "Either that, or everyone smokes hallucinogenics for breakfast."

"And hello to you too," Emma replies, "But anyways, this must be really bad, considering how you tend to make the understatements of a century."

"That was _one time_ ," he says, gritting his teeth. Before he can continue, Emma cuts him off with a loud sigh.

"A man was about to burn you _alive_ and you called it ' _quaint_ '," she says, exasperated. Erik can't help but snort at the memory, a demonic possession that turned out to be a former soldier with a very intense case of PTSD, that Erik so happened to trigger with his vaguely German accent.

"In my defense, he had an apron on and couldn't get a spark from the twigs he was rubbing together." he replies nonchalantly, and Emma gives a frustrated groan in return. "Anyways," he continues, "I'll probably be here for a few more days nonetheless. I might find a huge stash of marijuana somewhere along the way."

"If you say so," Emma says,and Erik can feel her rolling her eyes at him. "Just, you know, don't let this get to your head."

"That's what my job's about," he jokes, before saying his goodbyes and hanging up. He wasn't going to let something like _this_ get to his head, after all, he hasn't had nightmares for three years now.

* * *

_His mother is cradling him as a baby in her arms, softly singing him to sleep. Erik sees himself reflected in the mirror behind her. Ah, it must be a dream then. He lets himself relax and bask in the warmth, going back to simpler times. Her words slowly wash over him and his breathing grows deeper, more relaxed. "Sleep well, darling," she whispers to the baby--_

_Wait. Erik's mother_ never _spoke English._

_"Mama," he finds himself asking, his lips unmoving in his reflection. "When did you learn to speak English?"_

_"Oh, but my child, I always have," she answers, looking up to smile at him with her bright blue eyes._

Erik jolts upright, hands gripping at the sheets. He takes a few deep breaths until the pounding of heart slows down, then he instinctively tries to bring himself back to reality. The bed sheets are soft cotton, and the blanket on top of his legs is some sort of light wool. Slowly, he places his hands in his lap, and absentmindedly runs fingers over his scars, counting them and cataloging them in his head. By the time his right thumb brushes against a particularly nasty scar from a kitchen knife when he was fourteen, he's breathing slowly and deeply enough to feel calm.

He rubs at his face with his hands, and lies back down into the bed. His eyes have been closed for a good five minutes before he remembers.

His mother had grey eyes.

 

 


	3. a prophet's hagiophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hagiophobia - the fear, dislike, or hatred of holiness and/or of holy things. (https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/hagiophobia)  
> \--  
> warnings for some more... psychological/surreal/religious horror? i think thats how i would describe it, hah. some of these i actually dreamt about before. aaaand i guess for reference, i've been raised as roman catholic, and i went to a catholic (but non-sectarian) school before university.

When he goes to the kitchen in the morning, notebook tucked under his arm, Raven is already there, solemnly gazing into a bowl of cereal. He quietly moves around her, preparing his coffee, waiting for her to speak first. After a few minutes, he sits down at the other end of the table, and sets his notebook on the table to go over his notes. He's listing down the possibilities of an inherited mental illness versus shared trauma when Raven lifts up her head to look at him. The circles under her eyes are even darker now, and there's an emptiness in her eyes. Compared to Charles' eyes, which seem empty like a black hole. like true _nothingness_ , Raven's is the light being dragged into that black hole, tired and fading and struggling.

"Charles gets visions, and I... I get nightmares, I guess," she says, tilting her head and aimlessly carding fingers through her hair. "White roses turning into anemones. Church bells. Blood raining instead of water. That sort of thing."

"How bad do they get?" Erik asks, keeping his voice neutral. Raven tilts her head the other way and gives a long sigh.

"I've been up since four, it was just _horrible_ this time," she replies, curling a lock of hair on her finger. "They were chasing me through this house, there was-there was four of them. All I could hear was lace brushing against the floors and I couldn't see them reflected in mirrors or on glass. I found... a gun, I think, somehow, and I just shot at one of them and when I looked up... When I looked up... It was _Charles_." Raven's cradling her head in her hands now, and her shoulders are shaking from the sudden burden of breathing.

"...And 'they' would be..?" Erik asks carefully, trying to make sure he won't accidentally set her off. She looks up at him, and her mouth twitches slightly before she smiles incredulously, and soon enough, she's laughing. She's laughingly shakily, her eyes wide with fear and exasperation.

" _Who else?_ " Raven says, catching her breath and throwing her arms up in the air, "It's those _statues_ Mother insists on keeping around! It's like-It's like they're watching every move I make... Like, like, like I'm nothing compared to Charles!" She flops back against the chair, chest heaving and eyes unfocused. Erik takes a sip of his coffee, and remembers at least three separate statues of the Virgin Mary he came across yesterday. They were all clothed in delicate silk and lace, and even had (hopefully) false eyelashes painstakingly attached to their carved eyelids. Raven's been in this mansion longer than he has, so that means he's missed one statue, and it must be in a place that she has to constantly go to for her to become this bothered by it.

Charles' room.

* * *

Some part of him feels like he shouldn't be here, like he's breaking some revered unwritten law just by standing outside Charles' room and taking in the details of the room. There's no door at all, only gauzy curtains, which honestly should've been a signal for him to turn back and walk to his room. Despite this, he gently parts one to the side, so he can rest his weight against the door frame.

True enough, he finds the fourth statue tucked away in a corner with flowers and candles laid out for it on an altar. But that quickly becomes a forgotten detail when he soaks in the rest of the room.

Charles is lying down on a pure white bed, with lace draped around him on four posts. He smells incense burning somewhere, and there are intricate flower arrangements on the walls. " _Unbelievable_..." he mutters to himself. The whole thing feels like a sacrificial altar, or a body being displayed for mourning. A chill runs through his spine, and he turns around to walk away before anything else can happen. He can hear his heart beating in between his ears as he makes his way back to his room, and if those statues are actually turning their heads to watch him, he's not going to pay them any mind.

He rummages through his bag for his Polaroid, and takes a few minutes to collect his thoughts. All he has to do is take a picture of at least one of the statues. He's not going to die. He can't possibly die here.

Slowly, he makes his way back to the closest statue, planning an escape route in his mind, just in case. He's holding on tightly to his Polaroid, and so far, all he can hear is the sound of his footsteps and his own breathing. Just one picture, he reminds himself. Just one, quick picture, then he can go back to his room and watch it develop there, and attach it to his notes for Emma to look over. He turns left when the halls split into two, and he finds himself face to face with one of the statues. "What are _you_ trying to do here?" he mutters to no one in particular, as he brings the viewfinder up to his face. After taking a deep breath to steady himself, he presses the shutter closed.

For a split second, before he pulls out the photo and starts shaking it, he swears the statue blinks at him, but he has no time to pursue that thought when he hears footsteps coming towards him. He turns to find Raven walking with a distant look in her eyes. There are small cuts on her hands, and her previously immaculate dress is stained. "Raven," he starts, but she walks past him and up to the statue and stands still beside it for a moment. Then she raises her hand and pushes it down.

The porcelain makes a loud, piercing noise as it shatters against the dark hardwood floor, and its head rolls ( _still smiling peacefully_ ) towards Raven's foot. Without hesitation, she raises her foot and crushes it under her heel, barely wincing when fragments of porcelain brush by her ankle. "Stop laughing at me," she hisses, and raises her foot again to crush another large piece. " _Stop laughing at me!_ " she screams, shrill voice ringing through the hall.

" _Raven_ -" he repeats, gritting his teeth, "Raven, I need you to breathe." He slowly inches towards her, avoiding the debris and ignoring the photo now developing in his hands. Her chest is rising rapidly, her eyes are unfocused, and he can see that she's trembling. He tucks the photograph in his pocket and calms himself before speaking again. "Can you breathe slowly for me?" he asks softly, hands hovering above her shoulders, "Can you do that? Just inhale... Then exhale... That's good... Inhale... Exhale..." He slowly lowers his hands, and keeps a firm but gentle grip on her shoulders as he continues to monitor her breathing. Just as Raven looks like she's calming down, they both hear someone gasp.

"Oh dear..." the voice says, and they turn to find Mrs. Xavier standing in the hallway, her gaze nervously flicking back and forth. "Raven, go to Moira and have your wounds dressed. I-I'll fix up over here." Raven visibly tenses, and Mrs. Xavier sighs, one hand fluttering to her temple. "Raven, _please_ , don't make this any harder." The two of them lock eyes for a moment, and then Raven shrugs Erik's hands off her shoulders and walks away. Mrs. Xavier watches her with pursed lips, and when she's out of sight, she turns to face Erik with another one of her tight smiles. "I'm terribly sorry about that, Mr. Lehnsherr," she says, "But I'm sure Raven won't do that again while you're here."

" _Again_? You mean... This has happened before?" Erik asks as Mrs. Xavier opens a discreet panel in one of the walls, bringing out a broom and dustpan. "Do you at least know what sets it off?"

"Raven sometimes... Sometimes, she gets into these _moods_ and starts going around breaking things. Especially if she's had a particularly bad nightmare," she replies, gingerly sweeping the porcelain shards together. "If the damage isn't _too_ much, I usually fix it myself, but I've had to replace things sometimes. But it just doesn't make sense to me, you know? One moment, she's carefully cleaning these statues and offering flowers, then in a split second, she breaks them apart."

Erik processes this information, and takes the chance to take the photograph from his pocket and check it.

There's no statue in the picture, but Raven is there, looking down at the ground. Wait, no. On closer inspection, the statue's _there_ , in a way, casting a shadow against the wall, but it's not _physically_ there in front of the wall. "What the _fuck_ ," he whispers to himself, and suddenly the hall is filled with the now-cloying scent of lilies.


End file.
